


this place of wrath and tears

by The_Wavesinger



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dysfunctional Relationships, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, Power Dynamics, Second Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-09-28 08:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Míriel makes a compromise. She may yet come to regret it.





	this place of wrath and tears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Innin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innin/gifts).

> The title is, of course, from Invictus by William Ernest Henley.

Tar-Palantir has infinite faith in Míriel. He sees the coming darkness, but believes that she can forestall it.

Míriel herself has no such illusions. She knows herself, and knows how little admiration she inspires outside of the Faithful (she has a few loyal spies, not many but enough; they don’t tell her any of this, not directly, but their faces speak clearly enough when they give her their reports). And unlike her namesake, she will not die for anyone. Not when she can do more by living.

So when Tar-Palantír dies, Míriel knows what she must do.

—

The funeral is full of King’s Men, speaking out of the sides of their mouth and shooting her loaded glances. Few Faithful attend; they are, Míriel suspects, preparing for the oncoming storm.

“I am sorry,” Calien says, “for your loss.”

She comes to shake Míriel’s hand, clothed in sombre white mourning clothes (her prerogative as a member of the royal family, of course), and Míriel inclines her head in response. There is nothing else she can say to this, nothing she can do in the face of Calien’s perfectly proper sorrow.

“Your father was a great king. Many will miss his guidance, I am sure.” And beneath it: _you have few followers, M__íriel. And there is another line._

Míriel’s hands clench into fists. She knows what will happen, can feel the inevitable hanging in the air between them.

But for now, she is Queen Regent of Númenor. She can still give orders, however minor they may be. “Stay behind, Calien,” she says, “we will have a drink afterwards.” And by the flash of Calien’s eyes she knows what Míriel is doing.

But for this evening, at least, Calien has no choice. She knows the stupidity of staging a coup before the old king has been buried.

So Míriel knows she will stay behind.

—

The gardens were Míriel’s mother’s. She never set foot in them while her mother was alive, and she does not go there often even now.

But it is there that Calien waits for her.

(Míriel’s mother was one of the King’s Men; Míriel knows this for the power play it was intended to be.)

“Your Majesty.” Calien bows, short and shallow, barely a sign of respect. That she does that much is a surprise.

Míriel flicks her wrist at her. “Don’t be foolish, Calien. We both know what’s going to happen.”

Calien looks at her, affects confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Another time, Míriel might have humoured her. She still remembers the cousin she played with and loved in childhood, even if she’s grown into a cruel, twisted woman. But now, she can feel her eyelids struggling to close and her throat still tight with unshed tears and held-back pleas. She’s in no mood for games. “Marry me.”

Calien blinks at her. Says nothing.

“Marry me,” Míriel repeats. “I have no desire to die; wedding you is a far better option, for both of us.” For Calien, legitimacy. For Míriel, a chance to live. An uneven exchange, to be sure, but still an exchange.

To her credit, Calien doesn’t try to deny anything. Instead, she reaches up (she is shorter than Míriel, and Míriel takes petty pleasure in that fact) and kisses her, hard and sharp and possessive. A mockery of what could be, and yet infinitely more gentle than she has to be, given the circumstances.

Míriel doesn’t kiss her back. But she stays still, and lets Calien do what she will.

—

Calien is beautiful.

Míriel focuses on that.

It’s rather like looking into a mirror. Sharp angles of jawline and cheeks, delicate eyelashes, black curls tumbling slick across her shoulders, golden skin, deep grey eyes. The very essence of a Númenorean woman. Míriel doesn’t even have that going for her, that she looks the part.

The fact that Calien is so beautiful makes this easier.

“I looked at you,” Calien murmurs into Míriel’s hair, her hands all over Míriel’s body. “When we were younger. You were so beautiful. You _are_ so beautiful.”

Míriel has looked, too. Calien is beautiful; of course she has looked. But she won’t admit it.

Calien peppers kisses all over her body. She is gentle when she undresses Míriel, gentle when she when she tugs her onto the bed, gentle when she kisses Míriel right on the mouth. She tugs at Míriel’s hair when she kisses her, but that, too, is gentle.

Míriel gasps and squirms under Calien’s hands, and she feels heat bloom in her stomach, spreading out across her body, an aching tightness she could savour forever.

And then, suddenly, sharp fingernails score a line straight down from Míriel’s collarbone to her navel.

A fiery line of pain, and Míriel arches her back, cries out. Calien kisses her way down the line her nail painted, but she’s less gentle now, and she tugs at Míriel’s skin with her teeth, bites down sharply and leaves marks, and each stab of pain has Míriel moving into and away from her hands both, the _painpleasure_ a miasma of confused signals that scramble her mind until she has to bite down on her gasps.

Míriel fists her hands in Calien’s sheets; they’re unfamiliar, a strange material, and it grounds her for a moment, but Calien takes one of her breasts in her mouth and she is lost again. Stars dance in her vision, and she chokes on a moan when Calien tugs with her teeth at the same time as she pulls on Míriel’s hair again, a lightning-sharp pain lancing across her body.

Then Calien is gone, suddenly, her hands and mouth both disappeared, and Míriel is left panting and bereft on the bed.

When Míriel gathers herself enough to look, she finds her fiddling with something under the bed, pulling out a box and rummaging through it until, in her hands—

It’s a wooden phallus. Straps dangle from it, and it’s carved to be, she assumes, realistic in shape if not appearance. Míriel has never actually done the deed before, but she is—familiar with the anatomical realities. And yet she didn’t expect this. Not between the two of them. She expected something more like the way she pleasures herself. The thing that curdles in the bottom of her stomach is not wholly unpleasant, though.

Calien must see the way Míriel’s eyes widen, because she smiles. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

The stretch when the thing slides down into her is painful. It aches, and Míriel wants to kick out, but Calien’s hands are gripping her wrists tightly, her sleeves brushing Míriel’s face (she only barely parted her robes to fasten the phallus; otherwise, she is still dressed). The pressure on Míriel’s wrists increase, and she thinks better of it.

Calien gives her no time to adjust. She starts fucking (and there is no other word for what Calien does, the rough thrusting of her hips driving that thing deep into Míriel) without pause, and Míriel can do nothing but lie there and take it.

And yet.

It feels good. Strangely good, a mix of pain and pleasure that has Míriel crying out and sobbing. She tries not to enjoy it, she does, but Calien’s thrusting sets her nerves afire, and when Calien brings her hand down to the little nub just above Míriel’s entrance, she screams. She’s teetering on edge, and just a little more—

Calien pulls out.

Míriel doesn’t beg, doesn’t plead. It takes all of her control to press her lips tightly together, but she will _not_ give in.

“Suck me,” Calien orders.

The wooden phallus is nudging at Míriel’s lips, and she has to take it in, clean off all her own wetness. And then Calien is hovering over Míriel’s face, and the implicit order is clear.

Míriel takes a deep breath, and dives in.

Calien tastes salty and tangy. She is already on edge, and every touch of Míriel’s tongue has her squirming and thrusting into Míriel’s face. It’s an odd kind of power, and Míriel revels in it, revels in how Calien unravels above her, in Calien’s soft pants and how eagerly she bears down on Calien’s face. And when she finally comes undone, shuddering and shaking, and rolls off to lie panting next to Míriel, that, too, is a victory.

Míriel is still throbbing, still aching. And Calien is not going to finish her off, clearly. And her face is sticky with Calien’s wetness, smeared across her chin and nose. She moves her hand, to wipe off her face or to her entrance she hasn’t yet decided.

“No.” Calien grabs her wrists again. “Not tonight.”

“But—”

“No.” Her teeth graze Míriel’s neck, and Míriel is suddenly aware that the guards posted outside the rooms are Calien’s. If Míriel cried out for help, they likely would not even twitch.

So she subsides, and Calien smiles against Míriel’s neck, drops a kiss onto her collarbone.

“Good night, wife,” she says.

Míriel does not respond. They may have consummated, but they aren’t yet properly married. She will not give Calien any more than she has.

Calien seems unconcerned at the lack of response from Míriel. The way she embraces Míriel would, in any other circumstance, be termed sweet. Míriel goes to sleep with Calien’s arms wrapped around her, pinning her hands to her sides, holding her tight.

—

The ceremony itself is short.

“We are still in mourning, my dear,” Calien tells Míriel. “I don’t want to disrespect your father.”

Her hand is heavy on Míriel’s shoulder, a silent reminder, and so Míriel says nothing.

They do not ascend Meneltarma to pray. Instead, Calien takes her hand in front of a carefully-selected audience, the rich and the powerful, King’s Men and Calien’s old friends (these days, there is not much difference between the two). She speaks the ritual words, the husband’s words, and Míriel bows her head and accepts the wedding necklace.

Meneltarma rumbles in the distance. Míriel kisses Calien, and tries not to think.

—

“My lady.”

Lord Amandil bows deep, and Míriel inclines her head.

“Congratulations,” he says, “on your wedding.”

His eyes give nothing away. Calien’s friend, and yet—

_Go to Amandil if all else fails,_ her father told her, on his deathbed. _He will protect you._

Míriel could accept his congratulations and walk away. This is not something she wants to do today. She wants to crawl into bed and sleep until the end of Arda and the last great battle, to be engulfed by the oceans and disappear into its embrace. To forget about the existence of Calien or the King’s Men or this whole cursed island.

And yet.

She has a duty.

“Lord Amandil,” she says, “my father had something of his he wanted me to give you. If you could wait one minute?”

She does indeed have a gift for him, a vase that was her great-grandmother’s. But the gift doesn’t matter. What matters is the look she gives him, the words hastily whispered in his ear.

They will have to develop lines of communication, of course, but today, Calien is already on her third glass of wine. Wen Míriel kisses her cheek and says she has a gift to give Lord Amandil from her father, she only smiles indulgently and places a possessive hand on Míriel’s back.

Lord Amandil gives her a look that could almost be pitying when she presses the gift into her hand.

She does not tell him this, of course, will never tell anyone this, but the burn of Calien’s touch is not entirely unpleasant. When Calien gathers her into her arms in front of the gathered crowds, she does not affect the blush or the pleased laughter.

The angry tears come later, as she bathes alone, but in that moment, when she puts her arms around Calien, (she convinces herself) there is nowhere else wants to be.

—

When Calien seizes the sceptre, she styles herself Ar-Pharazôn, not Ar-Pharazêl. She sits on the throne, and Míriel kneels to her.

To her King.

She kisses Calien’s hand—Ar-Pharazôn’s hand—with trembling lips. Rises, and takes her place on the throne next to her, the throne made for a Queen.

“My loyal wife,” Ar-Pharazôn says. “Ar-Zimraphel I crown you.”

Míriel bows her head.


End file.
